Carry On My Wayward Son
by smash interrupted
Summary: '...I'm a selfish bastard, Minister,' MacMillan replied, rather bluntly, as he leaned back in his chair. 'Price… John, is like a son to me. I'm sure you're aware of that. Naturally, I don't want to see him hurt. But there's something I want more. I want him home, and I want him free. I will do what I have to to make that happen, even if it means putting him through hell first.'
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Hello all. After receiving some feedback, I have decided to write a prequel to When The Levee Breaks, to provide a bit of a back story. x).

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Carry On My Wayward Son  
Part 1/5

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'_DIRECTOR OF SPECIAL FORCES THE EX-CAPTAIN OF WAR CRIMINAL JOHN PRICE.'_

The headline was old – a couple of weeks, at least. It was splashed across the front page of a yellowed newspaper, big, bold letters framing a black-and-white mug shot of the fugitive in question. MacMillan sighed, giving the article a cursory glance before moving on, the rubber sole of his walking stick _thwacking_ against the pavement.

He would have torn it down if he wasn't convinced somebody would take a happy snap of him doing it. Since the story broke, he'd had all sorts of media on his arse, desperate to wring another scoop out of him. The last thing he needed was to be back in the news_. 'ENRAGED DSF VANDALISES STOREFRONT OVER JOHN PRICE ARTICLE. WHERE DO HIS LOYALTIES REALLY LIE?'_ He could see it now.

It was standard fare, these days.

Reaching the pedestrian crossing, MacMillan paused at the curb, exercising caution that hadn't yet mellowed with age. He looked toward the incoming traffic, watching as the lead car's brake lights blinked on. The old, rundown looking Ford slowed to a stop, dark fumes pumping out of its exhaust, and he raised a hand in thanks before limping across the road.

Turning a few steps away from the other sidewalk, he left the zebra lines' safety and cut in front of a parked van. He was in a hurry. In front of him, the electronic sign of his local liquor store buzzed. Too proud to use the disabled access, he climbed up the stairs to the entrance and pushed open the door. The cashier behind the counter looked up as it chimed, announcing his presence.

'Can I help you?'

MacMillan shook his head, offering a practised smile. 'No. Thank you.'

He meandered down the aisles, passed the stacks of beer cans and refrigerators stocked with Alcopop drinks. MacMillan pushed through a group of youths either too absorbed in their decision-making or too arrogant to make room for him. Eventually he found the wines section and made a beeline for the shelves of red. He spent a few moments studying the range, trying to find the precarious balance between price and something that would please his wife. There was a 2006 Cabernet Sauvignon for less than forty quid. He picked it up, and then picked up another. His wife's idea of a good red wine reduction was drinking half the bottle herself, after all.

Tucking them under his free arm, he turned to head out, but paused when his phone rang. Frowning slightly at the inconvenience, he dropped the bottles onto the row of cooking sherry beside him before digging around in his pocket to answer it.

He pressed the device to his ear. 'MacMillan speaking.'

'Sir,' the clipped tone of his secretary greeted, bypassing pleasantries for the sake of divulging information. 'They've found him.'

MacMillan shifted his weight onto his good leg so he could stand more comfortably, eyes flicking around to see who was in earshot of his conversation. Journalists had made him bloody paranoid. 'Fill me in,' he ordered curtly, when he'd ascertained he was alone. 'Make it quick.'

'The CPS has just issued an extradition request, Sir.' She informed him dutifully. 'Interpol is forwarding it to our Embassy in Dubai. They're applying for the transfer of a detained British national.'

'Does the request specify anyone in particular?'

'No, Sir. The name of the POI has been redacted.'

'Does it contain any identifying information at all?'

'As far as I can tell, no, there isn't. It's been removed from the official documentation. The order itself is entirely generic. I put in a request for the detailed copy, but I was denied. I suspect they don't want you to see it, Sir.'

MacMillan's lips twitched into a cynical smile. _Of course they don't want me to see it, lass. I've already caused them enough embarrassment over this. I'm lucky to still be in the job_. _But then, there are no flies on you, are there, Jane? You already knew that. _Exhaling softly, he looked to the ceiling, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. If he was going to pursue this, he needed to be sure. He needed to _know_ it was Price.

'How can we be certain it's him?' He asked, finally, trying to push aside the brief flash of guilt. _Does it matter if it isn't? Shouldn't I be jumping on this? Even if there's only a slight chance that it's him, shouldn't that be enough?_

_No_, his more rational side said. _If you fuck it up and piss people off over a false lead, then you won't be in any position to help him when they do find him._

'Interpol released a report an hour ago confirming the identities of the men recently involved in the attack on Hotel Oasis. They have formally ID'd the body of one Vladimir Makarov.' Jane replied, tone subtly changing from its normal, robotic quality to something he might have considered playful as she continued. 'Perhaps you should try turning on the news more often, Sir. Major media outlets across the globe have already picked up the story. It's been dominating headlines for the past twenty minutes.'

MacMillan blinked once, twice, his heart thumping in his chest. _Makarov. Dead._ There was no doubt in his mind that Price had been the one to do it. There was really no other reasonable explanation for it. Price was a stubborn man. When there was a job he had to do, he'd do it, even if everything else had to fall by the wayside to do so. He was like a bloody terrier, refusing to let go. And Makarov – well. He'd given Price plenty of reasons for wanting his blood.

'I'll make a note of it,' MacMillan said, twisting his wrist slightly to check his watch. He concentrated on the little hands, following them in a half-circle around the numbered face, letting his pulse settle. 'In the meantime, I want you to get a hold of the Defence Minister. Tell him I want to see him. Today.'

'Right away, Sir.'

'And Jane?'

'Yes, Sir?'

'Don't take 'no' for an answer.'

'Of course, Sir.'

He hung up.

* * *

Less than an hour later, MacMillan stood in line at the Ministry of Defence's security checkpoint, waiting to be cleared. The building had been a high value target during the war and, after a few close calls, they'd been forced to up their safety measures. He'd been one of the consultants they'd brought in to assess the situation. At any other time, he would have been satisfied with how diligently they'd followed his advice. But right now, it was little more than an inconvenience.

Finally he reached the front of the queue and handed over his ID before he could be prompted for it. The security guard looked mildly taken aback by his brusqueness.

'Thank you, Sir,' the man said as he accepted the card. He studied it for a moment, eyes scanning through the details, and then widening when realisation seemed to hit. 'I'm sorry for the wait, Colonel. Please, head on through.'

MacMillan gave him a terse nod, slipping his ID back into his coat pocket before continuing into the main reception. The waiting room was packed. There were men, women, and even children sitting in the hard, plastic seats, most likely an assortment of civilians, journalists and liaisons from other Government Departments. He passed by them as he advanced on the desk manned by a young, blonde administrative aid, hoping that he wasn't going to have to strong-arm his way in to see the minister.

It wasn't the kind of thing he wanted to do in front of an audience.

'Hello. Is there something I can help you with?' The receptionist smiled as he neared the desk, looking at him in much the same way one looked at children, the elderly, and the disabled.

MacMillan chose not to be particularly offended. 'I'm here to see Mr. Michaelson. He'll be expecting me.'

'And you are?'

'Colonel MacMillan, Director of Special Forces.'

'Ah,' the woman said, cloying expression still fixed on her face. She wore a bright red lipstick that seemed to clash with her grey suit and neatly braided hair. MacMillan found himself unconsciously comparing her to Jane. His secretary's glacial stare was off-putting, but at least she regarded everyone with the same level of distaste. 'Yes, he is expecting you. If you'd like to sign in, he'll be waiting in Conference Room B. Level four.'

MacMillan scrawled his name down on the sheet she'd indicated. He placed the chained pen back in its holster when he was done. 'Cheers,' he said, his gratitude somewhat forced. She didn't seem to notice.

'You're very welcome.'

He took a lift up to the fourth floor, his stomach dropping as it lurched upwards. His hand reflexively sought the railing for support. Nausea hit him again as it slowed a minute later.

Eventually, the familiar _ding_ sounded, filling the confined space before the doors opened out into a corridor. MacMillan exited, wandering along the hallway, making a few turns here and there, the route cemented in his mind. He came to a stop outside a single, wooden door, the metallic plaque reading 'Conference Room B'. He knocked.

'Come in,' a familiar, measured voice called.

MacMillan grasped the knob and turned it, pushing his way through. He limped across the threshold, taking care not to trip on the edge of the rug covering the floor.

'Colonel,' Robert Michaelson said, peering at him over a pair of black rimmed spectacles. He sat at the head of the large, twelve seater table that almost spanned the length of the room, partway through reading a sheaf of papers spread out in front of him.

MacMillan spied the granulated mug shot of his former Leftenant amongst the notes. 'Minister,' he reciprocated, tone flat.

Setting down the steaming cup he was holding in his hands, Michaelson turned slightly in his seat, glancing over his shoulder. 'Greer,' he addressed the man standing behind him. 'If you could give us a minute?'

Like most of the Minister's personal detail, Greer carried a sidearm at his hip and wore a ballistics vest beneath his casual clothing. He acknowledged Michaelson's request with a grunt, stepping out from behind his charge. MacMillan held the door open for him. When it closed, a stilted, uncomfortable quiet fell.

'I'm surprised you agreed to see me,' MacMillan finally broke the silence.

'Your secretary was very insistent.' Michaelson laced his fingers together, lips twitching as though the memory amused him. 'What's her name again? Janet?'

'Jane.'

'Right, well. She seemed to think it would be in my best interest to talk to you. As you might have guessed – I agreed with her.'

'She tends to have that effect,' MacMillan muttered as he reached for a chair. He pulled it out and slowly lowered himself into it, absently rubbing his leg. It was starting to cramp up. 'You should have told me you'd found him.'

Michaelson shook his head. 'It's better for everybody if you don't get involved, Colonel. You're too close to this.

'I'm already involved.'

'Then I would ask you to take a step back. Your relationship with Price has already caused us a great deal of strife. Both nationally and internationally. People are concerned that it's affected your operational capacity. I'd rather not add fuel to the fire.'

'I've served this country for over thirty years,' MacMillan said, tone steely. 'Don't insult me by suggesting that I'd put the welfare of a single man above that of the state.'

'I don't think you would.' Michaelson was quick to try and mediate the situation. The problem with politicians, though, was that they very rarely changed their tune. The placating was simply a ruse. This was no different. '_Intentionally_. I do value your service, Colonel. Be assured of that. But I also believe your personal feelings may cloud your judgement on this one. I can't risk it.'

'Lack of confidence in my decision making abilities aside, Price has been unofficially cleared for _months_, Minister.'

'Cleared by whom? Vorshevsky?' Michaelson chuckled darkly. 'That man is hardly the poster boy for morality.'

'Even if you won't accept Vorshevsky's testimony, you have to acknowledge that Price's actions were instrumental in ending the war. He's not a criminal.'

'That's for somebody else to decide. Somebody impartial.'

MacMillan had known Price would face an interrogation when he arrived back on British soil. It was standard, and definitely warranted, in this case. But he also knew that they'd give Price to somebody who didn't mind getting their hands bloody first. To extract the kind of information they didn't want surfacing in an on-the-record interview. MacMillan would do his duty, and duty dictated that it was necessary, though it didn't make the idea any more palatable.

'He'll be more inclined to answer your questions if I'm there, Minister.' He said, forcing the grittier details out of his mind for the moment. He could worry about it later, when he'd accomplished what he'd come here to do. 'There will be an equal amount of distrust on his side. Going in there acting like he's the enemy isn't going to do anybody any favours. A friendly face will help smooth things over.'

Michaelson accepted that with a nod, expression calculating. 'That's a reasonable proposition, Colonel, though your motives concern me. I can only imagine that your preference would be for us to… not cause any additional hardship during the interrogation. Ideally we would like that to be the case ourselves, but sometimes cooperation is not easily achieved.' He paused to sip his drink, as though the conversation was entirely normal. 'Taking that into account, the possibility of us clashing is quite high. I can't have that.'

'What is it that you want to know?' MacMillan asked, not bothering to counter the man's assumptions. They were too close to the truth for him to say anything meaningful.

'Everything,' was the answer, so simple and yet so difficult to obtain. 'I want to know everything. From the moment he was captured, to the moment he was arrested in Dubai, and all that happened in between. I want to know every choice behind every action, and every thought that ran through his mind. Can you assure me that I can get this information, without having to resort to methods you may object to?'

'No.'

'Then how would this work?'

'It would work because, when it comes down to it, I'm a selfish bastard, Minister,' MacMillan replied, rather bluntly, as he leaned back in his chair. 'Price… John, is like a son to me. I'm sure you're aware of that. Naturally, I don't want to see him hurt. But there's something I want more. I want him home, and I want him _free_. I will do what I have to to make that happen, even if it means putting him through hell first.'

There was a lengthy pause. Michaelson blinked, brow creased slightly in what MacMillan took as surprise. 'I can't say I expected you to say that.'

'Does that satisfy you?'

'It has altered my perspective,' Michaelson conceded, gaze flicking down to the papers on the table in front of him. He started separating them, as though he was searching for something. 'I'll reconsider your request. Keep in mind there are others I have to discuss this with.'

'I understand,' MacMillan said, not quite masking his irritation at the lack of definitive answer. Pulling himself up and onto his feet, grimacing at the chorus of aches and pains that seemed to come with old age, he checked his watch. 'I have a dinner date planned with the wife. If we're done here, I'll get a move on. Or you'll be dealing with her next.'

'Of course.' Michaelson rose, too, hands automatically moving to smooth creases from his suit. 'As a sign of good faith, Colonel, I'm going to give you some information. Detainment details. Price was hospitalised in Dubai for moderate injuries before we applied to have him extradited. There were several interested parties attempting to get a hold of him. We deemed it necessary to conduct an immediate transfer. He'll be cared for at St. Thomas', until he has recovered.'

'Will I be able to see him? Or will I have to make my own arrangements?' The threat wasn't particularly subtle. MacMillan had been playing this game for a very, very long time now. He had contacts. Friends. Ways of getting what he wanted if it wasn't willingly given.

'I'll make it happen,' Michaelson replied, refusing to take the bait. 'I'll have my office call you when I have an answer regarding the matter we've discussed.'

'See that you do,' MacMillan said shortly, before taking his leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: Thank you so much to everyone who followed, fav'd and reviewed. Here's the next chapter, x).

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Carry On My Wayward Son  
Part 2/5

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'Price,' a distant voice was calling him, the rhotic accent raising several flags of familiarity inside his head. 'Can you hear me, lad?'

The question went unanswered as Price lost the battle to vocalise his words, his mind stalling at the pivotal point between awareness and everything before it. Stringing a coherent thought together was like slogging through a field of honey, never mind translating it into physical actions.

'I was told he'd woken up,' the same person remarked after a beat, breaking through the steady monotony of medical machinery. There was an uncharacteristic edge in his tone. 'What changed?'

'He did wake up, Sir, but he wasn't lucid,' somebody else replied. 'We were forced to sedate him. Doctor Eldridge believed it was an anxiety attack.'

'Why wasn't I informed?'

'I'm not entirely sure, Sir. Perhaps Doctor Eldridge didn't think it important enough to trouble you with?'

'If a similar situation arises, notify me immediately. I will decide what's important.'

'Of course, Sir.'

Price finally managed to overcome his disorientation enough to crack an eyelid. The sudden rush of light and images was overwhelming, and he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut again.

'Lad?' He had a pretty good idea of who that was, now. An old friend. Not the type he usually ran into, but one that he'd be genuinely happy to see, if he could keep his bloody eyes open for more than a few seconds.

'Mac,' he croaked, mouth unbearably dry. The air around him changed, becoming more stifling, as though something large had filled the space. Price forced himself to look, ignoring the pain caused by the abrupt brightness. Eventually he grew accustomed to it, blinking as a rumpled, ceremonial uniform came into sight. MacMillan was leaning in close, staring down at him with concern.

'You're awake.' The older man said, sounding relieved.

'Like I could sleep with you ladies arguing in the background,' Price rasped, then grimaced. His tongue was thick and clumsy articulating the words. He needed a drink. 'Water?'

MacMillan shifted his weight onto his good leg, knuckles turning white around the handle of his walking stick as he straightened up. The third person in the room, a woman wearing nurse scrubs, interjected before he could take a step toward the sink.

'I'll get it.'

Price watched her pick up a glass, his thirst becoming all the more noticeable as she turned on the tap. Wincing slightly, he tried to push himself into a sitting position, reflexively moving to leverage himself off the mattress. It was a bit of a shock when his arms remained fixed in place, stopping him in his tracks. A half-panicked inspection revealed them strapped to the frame on either side of the bed. Beside him, the heart monitor's beeping became more insistent, and he wrenched his right hand as hard as he could in an attempt to free it.

'Easy, son,' MacMillan said, placing his own hand over the wrist Price was fruitlessly tugging against the restraints. 'That isn't going to help you.'

Price stilled in his grasp. It took a minute to get his mind right, instincts warring with each other as he tried to make sense of the situation. The drugs he was coming down off weren't helping.

'Try and remain calm, Sir,' the nurse said, irritatingly soothing, as she returned to his bedside, cup in hand. 'You might injure yourself.'

Price snapped around to stare at her, suddenly hyperaware of his surroundings and everyone in them. He gave her a sharp once over, assessing, pupils blown from the adrenaline still coursing through his system. 'Have you ever been restrained against your will, love?'

The question seemed to surprise her. 'No.'

'It doesn't usually end well,' Price said hoarsely. 'So please excuse me if I take a moment.'

Being a grumpy arsehole was the typical defence mechanism for people in their line of work, covering up fear, pain and anguish when they didn't want others to see it. Price knew it. MacMillan knew it. But the woman looked like she was about to take offence.

'It's a difficult situation,' MacMillan interjected, before the exchange became heated. 'But are the cuffs really necessary, Ma'am?'

'It's standard procedure when dealing with criminals,' the nurse replied, tight-lipped. 'As I've already told you, it's to prevent them causing harm to themselves or others, and from leaving the ward without proper supervision.'

'You and I are standing right here, Ma'am. He's hardly going to take off running.'

'It's against protocol.'

MacMillan might have wanted everybody to remain cordial to each other, but that didn't mean he was about to pull his punches. 'Could you fetch the head nurse, please? I'd like to chat with her about it.' He paused, and then gestured to the drink she still had cradled in her hands. 'You can leave that with me. I'll take care of it.'

For a long while, the nurse just stood there, like she was trying to work up the nerve to say something. Eventually she gave in, and did what she'd been bid. 'I'll get her now.'

'You still have a way with women, eh?' Price muttered, once she'd vanished out into the hall.

MacMillan hit the button to raise the top half of the bed without a word, releasing it once Price was upright. He held the cup to Price's cracked lips.

'I see you haven't lost your charm, either, lad,' he countered, as soon as his former Leftenent's mouth was filled with water. 'Have you been practising?'

Price ignored him, gulping noisily. When he was done, MacMillan went to put the glass down, and then thought better of it.

'You want anything else?' He asked.

Price shook his head. It wasn't that he couldn't have gone for more water, or even some food, because he could have. It was the image of MacMillan struggling to satisfy his needs while trying to support himself on one good leg and a walking stick that stopped him. 'No,' he said, voice containing its normal, irritable quality. 'Not unless you want to take these bloody straps off.'

MacMillan grimaced like he'd seen that coming. 'I'm sorry, son. I can't help you if I'm constantly breaking the rules. I'd be barred from visiting.'

'They've been coming down hard on you, then?'

MacMillan shrugged. 'Nothing I can't handle.'

Price knew that his actions wouldn't have done MacMillan any favours. The older man's involvement with him wouldn't have been looked on kindly. At the time, Price hadn't really dwelled on it too much. Life had moved too fast. Now, though, he could feel the beginnings of guilt. MacMillan wouldn't tell him how bad it had gotten. He wouldn't want to worry Price with the details.

'What about you, lad?' MacMillan asked after a moment, jerking Price out of his thoughts. 'You can't have had it easy.'

Price frowned at him. After his last promotion, MacMillan had turned into a bit of a deflective bastard. Something he'd picked up from the politicians he regularly mingled with, no doubt. As soon as the conversation took a turn he didn't like, he'd change the subject, or become frustratingly vague. _Well_, Price decided. _Two can play at that game._

'Dubai wasn't too bad,' he said. 'Nice food, good service. This place leaves a lot to be desired in comparison.'

It wasn't the answer MacMillan had clearly been digging for, but after a hard glance, the man seemed to let it slide. 'You remember being in the hospital over there?'

'Yes.'

'This is the first time I've seen you awake,' MacMillan offered as way of explanation. He shifted again, redistributing his weight. He was starting to look distinctly uncomfortable. 'And lucid.'

'Well, I wasn't tied down in Dubai, was I?'

'That triggers it?'

Price's eyes flashed. 'The memories aren't ones I'd stick in a scrapbook.'

MacMillan rubbed his chin, expression thoughtful. 'I wasn't aware you'd taken up craft as a hobby.'

Price snorted, both grateful and relieved that he didn't have to fend off an inquisition into his psychological health. 'It's therapeutic.'

A relaxed, amiable quiet descended over them, then, broken only by the intermittent noises of his medical equipment and MacMillan's fidgeting.

'Would you bloody sit down?' Price finally snapped. 'Before you fall.'

'I could grab you a chair, if you'd like.'

Both men stiffened at the interruption. Standing in the doorway, shoulder propped up against the frame, was a tall, middle-aged woman in light grey scrubs. Unlike her previous colleague, her clothes were creased and decorated with stains.

'That won't be necessary,' MacMillan said after a moment, slowly turning to face her. 'Miss..?'

'I'm sorry, that was a bit rude of me. I'm Lynda Wright, the supervisor on-call. Melany said you wished to speak with our head nurse?' At MacMillan's nod, she continued. 'I'm afraid her shift ended a few hours ago. Is there anything I can help you with?'

'Yes,' MacMillan replied, assuming a more authoritative stance. 'I'm going to be here for the rest of the day. I'd like to take his restraints off. It's causing him a bit of distress.'

'Is that so?' Lynda asked, diverting her attention to Price, who was scowling at MacMillan. She stepped over to the end of the bed and picked up his patient chart, flicking through it. Her brow furrowed slightly as she scanned each page. Price knew what she was seeing. Noticeable signs of torture. Possible PTSD. 'You have experienced some severe anxiety since you were admitted, but that's entirely understandable, considering what you've been through,' she closed the folder with a deft _snap_. 'Are you feeling anxious right now, John?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'_Positive._'

'That's good,' she remarked. Replacing his chart, she wandered over to his IV line, inspecting the bag. 'And how's your pain level?'

'Bad enough to prevent a prison break,' Price commented dryly.

His answer wasn't as detailed as she would have liked. 'On a scale of one to ten?'

'I've had worse.'

Lynda studied him closely, an action that he reciprocated with added suspicion. Eventually she retreated back a step, her eyes seeking MacMillan. 'I don't see the harm in removing his cuffs, as long as you remain in the room. He hasn't been officially listed as a security risk. I would ask that you replace them when you leave, however, or find somebody else to accompany him.'

'Of course.'

'If you need anything, please let me know,' she told them both, heading back out again. She was a busy woman. 'I'm on the ward until midnight.'

She closed the door behind her, considerate enough to give them some privacy.

MacMillan reached down and began to undo the straps. They were padded, and generally kind on the skin, but as he released the buckle, the restraint falling away, he found Price's wrist to be red and irritated, with no small amount of bruising. Someone had done them up tight.

'Christ,' Price hissed, rotating his hand before unfastening the other cuff himself, fingers fumbling over the simple task. Freed, he pulled away from the pillows at his back, hunching over with a grimace as he chafed blood back into his wrists. 'That's better.'

MacMillan sat down on the bed by his legs, mattress dipping under his weight. 'You want to take a shower? Get cleaned up?'

'Later.'

'Your face is losing the war, son.'

Price reached up. His beard had grown in the several days he'd neglected it, becoming as unruly as it had been after he'd escaped the Gulag. 'It can wait,' he said, his appearance pretty low on the list of things he had to worry about. 'How long are you planning on staying, Mac?'

'As long as I can.'

'When will they kick you out?'

'Technically they can't,' MacMillan replied easily. 'I've been granted special access by the Minister himself. Bastard even signed the permission slip personally.'

Price grunted. 'Margaret won't be happy.'

'She headed down to Cardiff yesterday, visiting her sister.' MacMillan shrugged dismissively. 'If she isn't happy, at least I won't be the one hearing about it.'

Price wondered if MacMillan had sent her away to avoid the storm once he'd heard Price was being brought in, or if she'd sent herself. He suspected the latter. 'She's a tough woman.'

'It's the reason I married her.'

'I thought it was because she was the only one who'd take you.'

'That too.'

Price shook his head, lips twitching into an almost smile. Rolling his shoulders, he stretched, his spine cracking loudly. The movement caused his ribs to pang mildly in reproach. Grimacing, he reached up to cup them, waiting for the pain to subside.

MacMillan saw but said nothing, exercising tact, and instead turned to look out the window. They were on the tenth floor of St. Thomas' hospital, in the Albert ward, which held a mixed bag of patients. Price's condition wasn't necessarily serious enough to warrant his own room, but the people involved in his detainment had wanted him confined where other patients and visitors couldn't see him, lest they recognised who he was. Through cracks in the blinds that were drawn shut, MacMillan could make out buildings, and a sky peppered with clouds. He studied it for a while, becoming increasingly aware of the dark gaze burning into the side of his head.

Eventually, he sighed. 'Go ahead and ask me, son.'

'Where's Soap?' The question was uncharacteristically soft, partly because Price was paranoid over who was listening, and partly because he wasn't sure if he was prepared for the answer.

'Where you left him,' MacMillan replied after a beat, refusing to meet his eyes. 'He hasn't changed.'

For a long moment, Price was silent, deconstructing MacMillan's words in his head, trying to ascertain the meaning. It just didn't make sense. 'They haven't extradited him yet?'

'No.'

'Why?'

'They don't know where he is.'

Price blinked once, twice, realisation hitting. 'You never told them.'

'No.'

'You protected him.'

'I protected _you_.' MacMillan turned, finally looking at him, expression pained. 'He's your weak point. He makes you vulnerable. If they'd gotten their hands on him, they would have used him against you. They still will.'

Price's jaw clenched. 'You've thrown yourself into the fire there, Mac.'

'Don't worry about it,' MacMillan said, and then reached out to snag Price's elbow, his tone deadly serious. 'And don't you go getting any ideas into your head about protecting me, son. They'll come for you, soon, and you're going to tell them everything, including how I helped you. Understood?'

When Price didn't reply straight away, MacMillan gave him a shake. 'John?'

'I got it.'

MacMillan stared at him critically, trying to decide if his concession was authentic or not. He must have decided that it was, because he released Price a few seconds later. 'It's going to get nasty.'

Price sighed. 'It always does.'


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, fav'd and followed COMWS. Here's Chapter 3, :).

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Carry On My Wayward Son

Part 3/5

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'John Price, how do you respond to the allegations being laid against you?' A man yelled, trying to shove his microphone into Price's face. Security knocked him back before he could get too close, but the growing crowd was quick to replace him.

'Are you aware that the ICC is calling for your prosecution, Mr Price?' A short, plump woman with pinned back hair called, no less demanding than her previous compatriot despite her more respectable appearance. 'Would you care to comment?'

Cameras flashed as Price was escorted past, a jacket draped over his head to prevent the press from snapping a picture. People were pressing in from all angles, hands snaking through the gaps in his security detail to try and drag him out into the open, where they could have at him. One determined individual reaped success and snagged his elbow. It took all his willpower not to break the hold himself.

'Senior officials in Dubai have linked you to the assassination of Ultranationalist leader, Vladimir Makarov. Could you shed some light on this development?'

'Anonymous sources are claiming that President Vorshevsky's support for you is actually a ruse predicated by Russian Intelligence Agencies. Can you tell us once and for all where your loyalties really lie?'

'Did you do it, Price? Did you kill him?'

'Are you really a Russian spy?'

Somebody wrenched him from the journalist's grasp, causing the lady to shriek indignantly at the sudden show of brute force. Price was pushed forward roughly, a not-so-kind request for him to hurry up. Nerves frayed, he obliged. The rapid-fire voices were getting louder, more urgent, as the reporters realised he was close to escaping. People surged against the protective line in one last, desperate attempt to reach him, and then Price was being bundled into the backseat of a sleek, black car, the door slamming shut behind him.

Fists pounded the tinted windows. Price stared at them, feeling inexplicably cornered, before the driver accelerated out onto the road, leaving it all behind.

'Jesus,' one of his escorts remarked, wiping away a smudge of blood on his cheek. It looked like he'd been clawed. 'They really wanted a piece of you, old man.'

'He's being tried as a war criminal, Burns,' another remarked, leaning forward to scowl at his companion. Price was sitting between them. 'Of course they wanted to tear him apart.'

'They haven't found him _guilty_ yet, Jameson,' Burns replied. 'And anyway, it's _the_ John Price. He's a regimental legend. Wallcroft is going to be beside himself when I tell him I've met you.'

The casual namedrop brought Price up short. Turning slowly, he met the other man's eyes, trying to ascertain if it had been mere coincidence. Burns grinned back, giving him a cheeky wink when his partner wasn't watching.

_Definitely one of Wallcroft's_, Price thought, keeping his face carefully blank. It stood to reason that MacMillan would have wanted a man in his corner during the interrogation. He would have had the influence to orchestrate it, too. _Thanks for the heads up, Mac_.

'Christ, Burns,' Jameson was saying. 'At least wait until the Courts have made a ruling before asking for his autograph, would you?'

'You got it, mate. I'll get one for you too, shall I?'

Jameson made a disparaging noise in his throat, but let the issue rest. Price faced front and relaxed into his seat, calmed by the knowledge that he had someone friendly at his back.

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

* * *

It was midmorning by the time they arrived at the site. Price stepped out of the car on his own volition, the standard procedure for dealing with criminals on hold momentarily due to his seeming willingness to cooperate. It also helped that he had several heavy weight political backers prepared to toe the line for him.

'This way,' Jameson said shortly, jerking his head towards the centremost building out of a group ahead of them. Price, who'd been waiting patiently for direction, followed him across the parking lot and up the front steps.

Jameson paused to key in a security code at the door, and then they were inside. The décor was crisp and clean, with furniture that was more suited to an office workplace than something more practically functional. Price was mildly taken aback by how _civilised_ it was, a part of him having believed that he'd been destined for somewhere a lot darker and dirtier than this.

'You'll be in one of the facilities debriefing rooms,' Burns told him as they wound their way through a series of corridors. 'It should be right – yeah. Here it is.'

'I'll leave him with you,' Jameson said curtly, sidestepping out of their way and continuing on down the hall. Price glanced after him, almost doing a double take when he caught sight of a familiar face. MacMillan stood a few metres away, talking quietly with a pair of men in pressed suits – Feds, most likely. He wrapped up the conversation as Jameson drew near.

'We're in here, gentlemen,' he announced, opening the door beside him and motioning them inside, his eyes briefly flicking over to look at Price. He nodded once before following his entourage into 'Viewing Room 6'.

Price was going to have an audience. _Lovely_.

'You ready, Captain?' Burns asked.

'As I'll ever be, lad,' Price replied, straightening up. 'Let's get this over with.'

Burns offered one last, reassuring smile before opening their door, labelled 'Int 6A'. 'After you.'

The room was small, though it was able to comfortably fit a table and two chairs without needing to press them up against the walls. Surveillance cameras hung from the ceiling, nestled away in the corners, and a vent filtered the air, preventing it from becoming stale in the confined space. Price took it in, gaze pausing on the large, glass sheet imbedded in the back wall. It was a one-way mirror. Whoever was on the other side could see what was happening in the room like it was a movie playing in a theatre, but all he saw was his own reflection.

'John Price,' a voice interrupted his thoughts. Price focused on the speaker – a tall, blonde man with a scarred face, sitting at the table with a manila folder in his hands. He put it down to gesture at the seat opposite him. 'Please, sit.'

Price did so. The man waited until he was settled before continuing.

'As I'm sure you've already guessed – I will be in charge of today's interview.' He laced his fingers together and levelled Price with a hard look. 'I'd like to remind you, Captain, that everything you tell me during this interrogation is off-the-record. It won't be used in any way against you further down the track. With that in mind, I expect you to be brutally honest about every detail when answering my questions. Do you understand?'

'Yes.'

'Normally I wouldn't conduct a meeting like this in such a _cordial_ setting,' Price got the distinct impression that he wasn't the only one who'd expected to spend the day locked in a dark, isolated basement. 'But I've been assured of your _absolute _cooperation. Again, I'd like to stress that it would be in your best interests to maintain that cooperation.'

'I understand,' Price said, recognising the warning for what it was. _Give me what I want when I ask nicely, or I'll rip it out of you using whatever means necessary later. _The only conciliation was that he was being asked nicely first.

'Good,' the man remarked. 'Do you have any questions before we begin?'

Price could think of plenty, but voiced none. 'No.'

'Then let's get started.' The man opened the file in front of him, studying it for a few seconds before returning his attention to Price. 'October 8, 2013. You were involved in a joint military operation to retrieve a target codenamed Kingfish.'

'Makarov,' Price interjected. 'The target was Vladimir Makarov.'

The man ignored him. 'According to the official reports, your team was ambushed inside the Karkonosze Mountains facility, and a couple of your men were injured during the evacuation.'

'Soap was wounded after our supporting AC-130 was shot down.' Price said. 'There were too many of them – they swarmed us. One got off an RPG round. Soap got caught by the explosion.'

'Soap?'

'John MacTavish.'

'And after MacTavish was incapacitated, you stayed back to provide covering fire while they EVACD him?'

'Yes. I was going to follow once they'd got him in the chopper, but the LZ was too hot. They had to leave without me.'

'What happened then?'

'I was caught.'

'I'm going to need more than that, Captain.' The man told him flatly. 'Tell me _exactly _what you remember.'

Price exhaled softly, steeling himself. This was it. 'I was on the ground. In the open. No cover. Almost out of ammo. They were closing in. There was nowhere to run.' His eyes became unfocused as he recalled the memory. 'The last thing I remember… was being hit with the butt of a rifle.'

* * *

_Price woke to find his hands tied._

_He shifted, twisting his wrists to test his restraints, and grimaced as the sharp edges dug further into his skin. __**Cable ties**__, he deduced, the familiar sensation bringing a moment of clarity. __**Industrial grade**__, his mind supplied after a few moments of struggling, his efforts bringing nothing but pain. __**Hard to break.**_

**_Been here before._**

_Giving up for the time being, he stilled, eyes darting around his surroundings. He was in a room – a basement. There were no windows. Overhead, a single, flickering halogen globe replaced natural light, illuminating four sturdy walls and a cracked, concrete floor covered in dust and intermittent lines of moss. The place smelled earthy and damp. Abandoned, most likely, or at least unused for a very long time. _

_Somebody didn't want him to be found._

_Breathing out a slow, calming breath to douse his fledgling panic, Price slowly manoeuvred so that he could push himself into a sitting position. It hurt. His joints were already stiff from lack of movement, and the cold had made it worse, seeping in to leave behind an ache that resonated through his bones. Gritting his teeth, he did his best to ignore it and tried to gingerly prop himself up. He got halfway upright before the pounding behind his temples exploded into sharp, agonising throbbing, and he collapsed back onto the ground with a groan._

_'I would not do that, anglichanin,' a voice rebuked from somewhere behind him, seconds before a boot pressed down on his exposed side, putting an abrupt end to his attempt to roll over and identify the speaker. 'You took a hard hit to the head. You should use this time to rest, while you can.'_

_The stressed syllables that riddled the man's speech allowed Price to peg the accent instantly. __**Russian**__. Not that that was particularly surprising. He'd expected it._

_Turning his head carefully, eyelids lowered to filter the light overhead, Price looked at his captor. A Guy Fawke's styled mask stared back._

_'A little shy, are we?' He eventually rasped. There were no identifiable marks or insignias on the man's dark clothing, and the hunting knife strapped to his belt was too generic to place. The people holding him obviously didn't want to be identified. By him, or somebody else, he didn't know. 'Why don't you introduce yourself?'_

_There was no response. The foot planted in his ribcage didn't move. Price was starting to feel winded by the extra weight and fidgeted, trying to alleviate the growing pressure. 'What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?'_

_The idiom seemed to fly straight over the man's head. Or perhaps he chose to ignore it. 'I told you to stop moving, anglichanin.'_

_Price relented, huffing a few ragged breaths in the ensuing silence. The man wasn't rising to the bait, seemingly confident in his control over the situation. Clearly not an amateur, then. Price wasn't going to gain the upper hand by manipulating emotions._

_'What do you want?' He asked bluntly, deciding that being forward was the best approach. He had nothing to lose._

_'I want you to rest,' was the measured response. Price snorted._

'_Right,' He muttered. 'Rest. Because it's just so bloody comfy…'_

'_You do not like your accommodation?' The man questioned, feigning curiosity. It was almost as if he was daring Price to answer. The subtle threat was clear: there are other places we can put you, ones you might not be as appreciative of._

'_No,' Price replied flatly, not at all interested in playing games. He'd been threatened with worse over the years. 'Excuse me if I don't tip the bellboy on the way out.'_

_The man leaned in slowly, taking his time, forcing the air out of Price's lungs until he was left gasping for oxygen. Each breath was a long, pained wheeze, his weak struggles little more than an annoyance. 'You killed many of our friends,' his captor remarked, as though he was commenting on the weather. 'You are lucky we are treating you so nice.'_

_Then it stopped, so abruptly that it was almost as if somebody had pulled him off. But there was no one else in the room. Price coughed, eyes watering, as he recovered, not bothering to try and hide how badly that had affected him. Finally getting himself under control, he glanced back at the smiling mask. 'Saving me for later, then, eh?'_

_'No,' the man circled around Price, boots thudding hard against the floor. 'Somebody else is interested in talking to you. They have paid us a good price.'_

_Price frowned at his retreating back. 'Who?'_

_'Don't worry about it, __anglichanin,' the man said, pausing to look over his shoulder. It was a calculated move, telling Price he'd been sold. The complete lack of detail was designed to make him sweat. To make him wonder and worry who would be so interested in him until they revealed the secret themselves. The footsteps resumed. 'Get some rest. You will find out soon enough.'_

_A moment passed, and then the door clanged shut behind him_.

* * *

'Who were they?' The man asked after a moment, jumping on the sudden lull in conversation.

'Ultranationalists,' Price answered, letting a slight hint of cynicism creep into his tone. 'Who else could they be?'

'So you're saying that Ultranationalists captured you during Operation Kingfish, and then auctioned you off to the highest bidder?' His interrogator summarised, sounding distinctly disbelieving. 'Despite their leader vocally calling for your blood?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'I don't know.'

'You don't know?' A blonde eyebrow arched imperiously, calling bullshit. 'Come on, now. You must have had your suspicions.'

Price eyed him warily for a second, before finally relenting. 'If I was to take a guess, I'd say that they weren't particularly happy with being used as bait to draw me in. A lot of their men died so that my team would walk into a trap – a trap that we also happened to walk out of, more or less.'

'You're suggesting their motivation was revenge, then.'

'I was sent to rot in hole so nasty even _rats_ steered clear. Makarov didn't get his prize, and they got a fair bit of money out of the deal. Seems like a decent hat-trick to me.'

'You sound pretty certain that that's the case.'

Price shrugged. 'Some of the others weren't as restrained as the first bloke. I heard them arguing a few times. Mostly in Russian, but I picked up Makarov's name once or twice. They sounded bloody scared, too. You had to wonder why.'

'Alright,' the man accepted after a lengthy pause, idly rotating a pen between his fingers. He hadn't yet written anything down. 'What else happened?'

'Nothing. They kept me there less than a week. Threw food and water at me every now and again. Then one day they came in and dumped a bag over my head. Dragged me out of the basement and into a car. We drove for a couple of hours, and then they handed me over.'

'Just like that?'

'Yes.'

'Who were you handed over to?'

'Representatives from the Gulag,' Price grimaced in distaste. 'Government. Black ops. The people you send in when you want something done, but don't want to be tied to it.'

'What did they want?'

'Information.' He smiled grimly. 'They tried to make me talk.'

'And did they succeed, Captain?'

'No.'

* * *

'_Prisoner 627,' the prison warden said by way of greeting as Price was hauled into the room. 'How nice of you to join us.'_

_They forced him into a chair bolted to the floor, quickly lashing his hands and feet to its arms and legs. Price nearly commented that his attendance, late as it was, wasn't by choice, so he really couldn't be blamed. But he forced himself to swallow the dissent, thinking better of it. 'Warden.'_

'_Have you reconsidered your stance on assisting us?'_

'_No.'_

'_That's unfortunate.' _

_Price watched through bloodshot eyes as the man lit a cigar, nose twitching as he caught the familiar scent of tobacco. He honestly couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd had a smoke. Time became a thing unto itself inside the Gulag's stone walls. _

'_I was hoping you'd change your mind,' the warden continued, after he'd returned his firelighter to his pocket. 'It's always so much easier when people help me__** willingly**__.'_

_The sound of feet scuffing behind him made Price tense. One of the guard's who'd escorted him there appeared by his side. He was built like a brick shithouse. _

'_I will ask you one last time.' The warden said. 'Are you sure you do not wish to cooperate?'_

_Price nodded once, knowing what was coming next._

_The first blow was glancing, but strong, snapping his head sideways as the guard's knuckles grazed his cheekbone. Price grunted. The warden hadn't even needed to give his attack dog a signal to set him off that time; they'd practised this scene so well. Price faced front. 'Is that it?'_

_**Shouldn't antagonise them**__. Price tasted blood a few seconds later, after he'd been belted in the mouth. He spat red tinged saliva onto the ground, using his tongue to search for missing teeth._

_The beating carried on for several minutes, each hit designed to slowly increase his pain until he had to grit his teeth to keep quiet. His right eye was swollen shut, his nose bled in thick, sticky lines, and his breath rattled through bruised ribs. _

'_Enough,' the warden called, putting a stop to the proceedings. He looked to Price, slumped in his seat. 'Have we knocked some sense into you yet?'_

_Price licked his split lip. 'No.'_

_The warden sighed. 'Continue.'_

_When brute force didn't work, they switched tactics, untying Price and hauling him onto his feet. He hissed as they wrenched his arms behind his back, binding his hands together, before dragging him across the room. Price was forced onto his knees in front of a large, steel tub, filled to the brim with water. Dread flooded his stomach, but he refused to flinch. __**I've survived this before**__. _

_The warden followed them, crouching down to Price's level. He leaned forward, staring at Price with a dark sort of intensity. 'What will it be, 627?' _

'_The answer is still 'no',' Price rasped._

_**Splash**__. _

_The sudden, brutal shock of having his head shoved under ice cold water slammed into him hard, and he jerked, instinctively trying to surface. Whoever was holding him down, though, simply exerted more force, refusing to let him up. It wasn't long before his lungs began to burn. He was suffocating. Price clenched his jaw, trying to prolong the last, desperate gasps for air that would inevitably lead to him drowning._

_They waited for Price's struggling to become a subdued sort of twitching before pulling him out. He surfaced with a choked gasp, expelling water in a noisy coughing fit. _

'_I'm going to ask you again,' the warden was like a damned broken record, repeating his questions over and over. Each time, Price's answer was the same, scripted response, albeit sometimes more colourful, depending on how conscious he was. He wasn't sure how long it went on for. His world had compartmentalised itself into three parts. Taking a breath, holding it, and waiting for that blessed moment where he was allowed to breathe again. He was living life second by second. Somehow, that seemed to stretch time beyond its natural constraints._

_Eventually, the warden lost interest. 'Take him away.' He said, waving a hand at Price who'd been left to lie on his side, chest heaving. 'Put him in solitary. Maybe some time alone will encourage him to be more talkative.'_

_They half-dragged, half-carried him to his new cell, their footsteps echoing in the vast, empty space that seemed to occupy a majority of the Gulag. Solitary confinement was located in the bowels of the ancient relic, hidden away in an isolated wing. Price was thrown into a small, two-by-two chamber, his only escape barred by a metal door at least several inches thick. _

_Inside, the silence was deafening. _

_Price collected himself from the tiles once they'd gone, gingerly cupping his ribs as he stumbled over to the cot tucked against the back wall. He collapsed onto it. The mattress was thin, barely offering any protection from the folding bed's frame, but it was still leagues better than lying on the cold, dirty floor. Price closed his eyes. _

_He never saw another prisoner after that. Just the box. They left him alone for days, sometimes weeks, only letting him out when the warden wanted to have one of his sessions. With nothing to do and only his own miserable self for company, Price found himself almost missing the rowdy, sometimes hostile experience of being housed with the prison's general population. Eventually he began to lose it, spending hours talking to himself, just to have something to listen to beyond the constant quiet._

_That was when they started playing games with him. _

_Sleep Deprivation. Price knew what was happening the second they activated the speakers in his cell, blaring Russian rock music he'd never heard before. For a while, it wasn't too bad. It gave him something to focus on other than his own thoughts and he managed to weather it reasonably well, but then, slowly, surely, it got to him, chiselling away at his resolve. It was the same song, stuck on a loop, so loud that he couldn't block it out. He tried, though, clamping his hands over his ears._

_It went on for most of the night. Then, it stopped. _

_Price found out why a few minutes later, when his door opened just enough for a tray to be pushed through before it was slammed closed again. Beyond shattered, he slowly picked himself up from where he'd been sitting in the corner and went to collect the food, keeping one hand pressed against the wall for support. It was the same, bland gruel he'd been served throughout the duration of his stay, but he forced it down anyway, determined to preserve what little strength he had._

_It wasn't long after that that the cramps hit. Small twinges, at first, as though something didn't quite agree with him. Then it got worse. Price staggered over to his cot, needing to lie down. His guts ached. The pain fluctuated between bearable and excruciating. He clenched his jaw when the more severe spikes hit, suffering in silence until they subsided. Sweat beaded on his brow, dribbling down to dampen the flat slab that was his pillow. They'd laced his food with poison. He had that one figured out long before the sound of creaking hinges announced the warden's arrival._

'_627,' the man said as he stepped across the threshold, flanked by a prison guard carrying an automatic rifle. 'How are you feeling?'_

_Price looked at him, feeling distinctly vulnerable in his current state. 'I've had worse,' he replied, shivers wracking his body. _

'_Always so defiant,' the warden remarked with a sigh. 'Is it really worth the trouble? I only wish for your cooperation. Give me what I want and I will make this stop.'_

'_No,' Price ground out._

'_You're certain?' The warden smiled darkly. He leaned in close, lowering his voice. 'Are you pleased with what we have reduced you to? The mighty Captain Price, trembling in a bed stained with his own filth. Does it not shame you?' _

_Price snarled. 'Go to hell.'_

'_We're already there, 627.'_

_Overhead, the music started playing again._

* * *

'What information were they looking for, Captain?'

The question pulled him back the present. Price refocused on the interrogator, his blank stare sharpening as he dispelled the memories. 'Standard Intel, mostly. They wanted names, places, operating knowledge for our assets and personnel. Anything I could give them on past and current military operations.'

'But you maintain that you gave them nothing.'

'Yes.'

The man frowned. 'You expect me to believe that you didn't give them a single piece of information during the two years you were imprisoned?'

'I do.'

'Torture can unravel any man; no matter how strong they are, if the right methods are applied.' It was said as though he was speaking from experience, his dilated pupils belying barely restrained excitement. 'What makes you different, Captain?'

'I suppose they didn't use the right methods.'

'And what are the right methods?'

'I don't know.'

The smile that met his statement was almost predatory. 'Everybody has a breaking point, Captain. Men like you and I? We generally make it a point to know what it is, so they can't use it against us.'

Price swallowed, fighting back a surge of anger before it could be reflected in his face. The honest truth was that he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if he _had_ broken. Because there were times in the Gulag where he'd been brutalised into a delirious, incoherent mess and he couldn't remember what he'd said, or done. Couldn't remember, but when he'd returned to his rational, sane self, the warden had gloatingly told him he'd _won_.

_Mind games_, Price refused to allow the internal inquisition. _He was just screwing with your head. You know it didn't happen._ It couldn't have happened, because, when it came down to it, the man was right. Price knew his breaking point. 'They weren't fortunate enough to find mine,' he said at last.

The man chuckled. 'That's lucky for us, then, isn't it?' He studied Price for a long, drawn out moment, as though sizing him up. 'Perhaps it would have been different if they'd gotten their hands on your comrade. MacTavish, was it? Or even-'

Price's hackles rose as the man shot a purposeful glance over his shoulder, towards the one-way mirror. _Mac._ 'I wouldn't go there, lad.'

'You're not in a position to be threatening me, Captain.'

'It's not a threat,' Price clarified. 'Just some… _friendly _advice.'

The man looked at him then, a clear 'got you' written all over his expression. He opened his mouth to say something, but was abruptly cut off.

'Sir.' It was Burns. The soldier had remained silent as he did his duty, standing to attention in front of the door. 'Perhaps it's time for a break.'

'If you absolutely need one, go ahead. Send Jameson in to replace you.'

'Not me, Sir. Price.' Burns tapped his ear piece. 'MacMillan's requesting it.'

The man's irritation was almost palpable as he processed that information. He'd had Price on the back foot there, and he'd known it. A few seconds passed, his jaw working while he decided how to respond. Eventually, he gave in. Squaring off against MacMillan clearly wasn't worth the trouble.

'You have ten minutes,' he snapped, before leaving the room.


End file.
